


Cold

by lizhatesfootball



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: I hate chelsea, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 02:25:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17540870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizhatesfootball/pseuds/lizhatesfootball
Summary: London is very beautiful and very very cold.





	Cold

**Author's Note:**

> as i previously said, i HATE chelsea. that's it. (actually i dont, i'm must very sad and bitter).  
> ANYWAYS in this house we love and support kings who have the balls to take penalties!!!!!!

Dele thinks those are some of the worst minutes of his footballing career, if not life. Then he looks down, a sharp pain always there in his leg, ready to remind him: the worst is yet to come. 

He's sitting on the black couch, alone in his big, massive,  _empty_ house, and feels cold in his bones.  _i can't believe i'm watching this in full HD why is this fucking TV so big why did Harry insist on buying this bloody thing i hate it i hate it i hate it._ But he still can't help watching it, watching as his team collapses another time. 

He can't stop replaying those images over and over again in his head, he can't stop replaying  _Eric_ in his head. Eric Eric Eric. Eric who makes fun of him in front of people but kisses and makes love to him so sweetly and fondly he thinks he might cry in the middle of it sometimes; Eric who calls him beautiful but blushes when "you are my actual sun Eric Dier"; Eric who makes him soup when he's sick; Eric who once took him to Portugal because " this is my favourite place and i want my favourite person in the world to see it".

Sweet sweet caring Eric, who, if Dele knows just a bit, must be feeling like shit, and who's probably trying to take all the weight of this ugly sad match off his teammates' shoulders, just to put it on his one. Eric who doesn't understand that  _who gives a shit about the carabao cup who cares about trophies i only want you Eric i only want you i love you i love you please be safe i love you._ Eric.

He gets up, hand reaching the back of his thigh, the pain almost making fun of him. It hurts and it shouldn't. It shouldn't fucking hurt on the 24th of January in the middle of a race for a trophy he gives a shit about; it shouldn't hurt if Harry, talented, amazing Harry, will be out till Match due to injury; it shouldn't hurt if Sonny is going to be with with his national team for the next weeks.

It shouldn't hurt but it does, so goes to the window; London is very beautiful and very very cold. Not cold enough to keep him from going to the house two blocks down the street in the middle of the night, just to pet two massive dogs and wait for  _his_ favourite person in the world. He opens the window and no, it's definetly not cold enough.

_

The way back home is exausting and Eric only wants to turn his mind off. He's tired, has ben for a long, in between injuries and  _fucking appendicitis._ He's sitting next to Harry, who's put his arm over his shoulders as soon as they got on the bus and hasn't taken it away from there since. He only wants to shut his mind off, forget the sound of hundreds and hundreds of disappointed supporters, the sound of loss. Pure, heartbreaking, unfair loss. 

As much as he tries, he can't; he optes for his eyes and shuts them close.

It's Harry who wakes him up, just minutes after, touching him as if he were made of glass, as if he were the one to protect when in reality he should be all but. He wants to scream to him and tell him  _leave me alone i don't deserve to be here i dont want you pity you should hate me not hug me leave me alone leave me alone._ He wants to but knows he can't: it's him who fucked up, Harry has no reason to be shouted at. Young young Harry who puts everyone else before him, hepls him get to car and drives him home. 

He thinks about telling Winksy to drop him at Dele's, but then catches a glimpse of his reflection in the car window and  _i can't let him see me like this i can't i can't even take a fucking penalty i can't breathe i can't i can't._ He thinks he might die, but then takes a big breathe and there it his: home. He's made it to home. 

When he gets in the first thing he sees are Dele's shoes by the door; he takes his off and puts them close to the youger boy's one. On the table: his keys and  _where is he does he know i love him more than anything in the world i know i do i love him i love him._

Depite the fast and frantical thoughts running in his mind, he takes slow steps to get to the room. He opens the the door and there he is; the bed is undone and he can distinguish the shape of his body under the covers; the dogs are sleeping peacefully on the floor next to him. Carefully, he gets out of his own clothes and goes straight to bed. 

He doesn't want to wake him up but can't help himself hugging him from behind, as tightly as he can, breathing his scent. Eric can feel Dele moving. Suddenly they're face to face, Dele's caramel eyes open and staring straight at his. His hand cup his face and their forheads are touching. 

They stay like that for minutes that feel like seconds and hours at the same time. 

"I love you" 

"I know you do. I love you too"

 

They're kissing now; the cold has disappeared. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you really read all of this nonsense- THANK YOU!!! kudos & comments are very appreciated!!  
> you can find me as "laetittya" on tumblr. I usually rant about everything but mostly football. 
> 
> xxx liz


End file.
